


A New Name For Everything

by onenotelite



Series: Reunion Tour [3]
Category: Fleabag (TV)
Genre: Eventual Happy Ending, F/M, Fluff and Angst, Friendship, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-12-17
Updated: 2021-02-15
Packaged: 2021-03-11 03:40:08
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 12,569
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28138572
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/onenotelite/pseuds/onenotelite
Summary: You suspect that, after this, you may never again be able to be near wedding planning in any capacity without being totally aroused.  Which is difficult considering how close your cafe is to a bridal shop.  Could become complicated.(Or, Fleabag and the Priest navigate their strictly-friends ((they swear)) relationship amidst another wedding)
Relationships: Fleabag/Priest (Fleabag)
Series: Reunion Tour [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2007583
Comments: 67
Kudos: 126





	1. One more time, try

To briefly recap the last two years of your life: your dad got married, which introduced you to the priest that you fell in love with, broke up with (twice), then spent another year after gifting anonymously (for which you got totally caught).  And somehow, since then you have managed to become  _ really  _ good friends with said priest. Your priest, as you start referring to him again.

  
  


_ (Trying not to call him Father too often, because you both know the effect that particular title has on your sex drive) _

  
  


It’s a bit awkward at first, learning to respect boundaries and opening up to trust one another again. Unlearning all the bad habits you’d picked up during your first go round. Finding other activities to engage in together besides fucking each other senseless.

  
  


Eventually, it levels out and becomes normal. Nice, even.

  
  


Then. Four months have passed since he called you out on the gift thing, and you actually started to be friends, when your sister calls out of the blue, letting you know that they ( _ the Claires, as you refer to them now)  _ “would very much like to have dinner with everyone present”.

  
  


And you  _ know _ exactly what that means…

  
  


**_-The Dinner-_ **

  
  


You do not panic when Claire suddenly pulls you aside during her visit and your big family dinner at dad’s house. Literally yanks you by the arm upstairs, tosses you into her old bedroom, and slams the door shut behind her. 

  
  


It is definitely not outside her character to be this wound up and to seek private council by force. Especially if either of you need a quick escape from Godmother.

  
  


Nothing out of the ordinary here, so no reason to be nervous.

  
  


(Besides, you had shown up mentally prepared for this evening. You had a suspicion of what exactly to expect after that call. You were positive about it when you tried telling her that actually you had plans that particular date she’d selected. She had video called immediately and just gave you a glare sharp enough to puncture skin. It was obvious then.)

  
  


So you had no reason to suspect anything other than a ring-related (or possibly baby-related) announcement, and therefore nothing to panic about when she’s kidnapped you into another room unexpectedly.

  
  


But then, she pokes a finger in your face and looks as serious as ever. “I need you to not freak out, okay?”

  
  


You notice she’s using her left hand to scold you, and when you skirt your gaze slight right, your suspicions are confirmed. She sees you eye up the ring and drops her hand immediately.

  
  


“Yes. Klare proposed and I said yes.” You’re about to congratulate her in an embarrassingly loud way, but she holds up her hand again briefly as a motion to cease and desist. “Stop. Save it for when we tell everyone. I have something else I need to tell you alone first, which is what I need you to promise not to flip out over.”

  
  


_ Now  _ is the moment you start to panic.

  
  


“Klare mentioned that he wanted to have your priest officiate the ceremony.” She says matter-of-factly.  _ Been rehearsing that one for a while.  _ “Since he was the one who helped bring us together after the wedding. Thought it’d be poetic.”

  
  


She has definitely gone soft in that last bit there. Her lips curl up into a sort-of smile at the thought, of the symmetry of the idea.  _ She is really happy. _

  
  


Still, you can’t help but wind her up. “I mean I  _ was _ the one who told you to go out the side way  _ after  _ his speech, but sure. It was all him.”

  
  


If looks could kill, you’d be dead in exactly three seconds. 

  
  


“I haven’t agreed to it yet.” She switches gears abruptly, in classic Claire fashion, and it dawns on you that she’s actually worried about  _ you.  _ “Neither of us are really all that religious, and I could easily make something up as a reason to say no. He doesn’t know about the full… history…of you two.”

  
  


So she did not tell him how her scandalous sister fucked and fell in love with a Catholic priest. Fair enough.

  
  


“I appreciate the concern. But you’ll need a better excuse if you really don’t want a hot priest officiating your wedding, because I am fine with it.” 

  
  


“Are you sure?”

  
  


“Yes. We’ve…”  _ Made up  _ implies that you are romantically involved once again. Which would absolutely result in a long lecture. (Which is why you haven’t mentioned this fact before now). “We’re friendly. Got an inbox full of chaste texts to prove it if you like.”

  
  


She stares at you expectantly, like she is going to need to see those texts eventually. Or possibly that it’s simply a look of sisterly concern for your well being.  _ Probably the texts thing.  _

  
  


“Honestly, it’s fine. And besides, if you have anyone to worry about shamelessly seducing the priest…”

  
  


You absolutely do not need to finish that sentence. The resulting mental picture is vivid for you both and finishes the thought for you. Claire just pinches the bridge of her nose, and lets out a sharp sigh.

  
  


_ (Flash cut to:) _

  
  


“Oh you absolutely must have our very chic priest for the ceremony!” Godmother shrieks as she has snatched Claire’s hand to inspect the ring.  _ Always ready to pounce. _

  
  


You simply toss Claire a look that conveys  _ I told you so  _ on your behalf. She just nods once curtly and does not acknowledge it any further.

  
  


Dad sits in the corner, grinning endlessly and fumbling around for the right congratulatory word s. You take this opportunity to converse with Klare, who is grinning so widely you suspect his cheekbones may shatter as a result.

  
  


“Congratulations.” You tell him, and mean it. It’d be difficult to imagine anyone who could make your sister happier or be more worthy of being her partner.

  
  


Klare pulls you in for a friendly hug that should not catch you off-guard but still does. 

  
  


Afterwards, he launches into a grandiose speech on the importance of love. It’s sickeningly sweet, which you’ve learned over the years is very much his modus operandi. It does serve well as a reminder of how perfect those two are for one another. She benefits from his sunshine outlook, and he could definitely use it with a bit of healthy cynicism.

  
  


_ (You choose to ignore the fact that the whole personality thing mirrors you and the priest just a little too close for comfort) _

  
  


\--

  
  


You decide against warning your priest about Claire’s incoming wedding officiant request. 

  
  


Mostly because you can imagine exactly how it’d go--Claire stomping in, possibly with Klare but probably on her own, inevitably acting as if her wedding planning is an inconvenient chore. Borderline hostile in a way. So not the standard bride-to-be behavior. And it would absolutely be funnier if he is caught unaware.

  
  


You are privy to Claire’s plans, as she texts you right before heading over to St. Ethelred’s. One last check that it is not inflicting serious damage on your psyche by welcoming him into her wedding and your life as a result.

  
  


The whole thing is the epitome of perfect timing because the night before you had spoken with him, spending a twenty minute phone call just talking about Strictly Come Dancing. You’d had every opportunity to mention it but failed to do so. Whoops. 

  
  


_ (You’re smugly proud of yourself with this one) _

You keep your phone close through the afternoon, ready for a frantic phone call from your friendly neighborhood priest. The cafe is covered so you’re taking advantage of the day off to just unwind a bit. Without a doubt he will be calling afterwards, likely to chastise you for holding out on him. 

  
  


When it rings and his picture pops up, you are not surprised. 

  
  


“I just spoke to your sister.” Definitely a bit shell-shocked. “You didn’t tell me that she got engaged.” His tone is accusatory. Yep, while you saw it like an oncoming train, he got sideswiped. 

  
  


_ (You don’t even pretend to not be amused by this) _

  
  


“Oh I didn’t mention it?”

  
  


“ _ No,  _ you carried on for a full ten minutes about Claudia Winkelman, and made no mention of that news. Nor warned me that she was coming to my church today”

  
  


“Well I just have a lot of opinions about her outfits.” He chortles, and you can sense he is less tense now. “Must have slipped my mind, sorry.”  _ (You’re not, and he can tell.) _

  
  


“I’m sure.” He teases. “Surprised you didn’t hide a camera somewhere in my office just to catch the look of surprise on my face when she turned up.”

  
  


“Trust me, if I was going to plant CCTV anywhere, your  _ office  _ would hardly be my first target.”

  
  


“Yeah?”

  
  


You can tell that this flirty banter is creeping towards the edge of too risque for him. It’s become much easier for you to stretch the limits incrementally without snapping too hard and fast. 

  
  


But you can feel that this, threatening to plant a camera in his bedroom,  _ might _ be pushing it.

  
  


“She asked if I would officiate the ceremony.” He’s changed the subject with a more sober tone now. “Is that….a problem?”

  
  


“Why would it be a problem?”

  
  


Both of you leave the events of the last of your family’s weddings he officiated unspoken. Though, for posterity's sake, a brief recap plays in your memory.

  
  


“Not a problem for me. Claire was really impressed by your wedding speech, and it sounds like you made an impression on her fiance as well. You’d be perfect.”

  
  


“Wait.” He sounds about as serious as a heart attack now. You instinctively panic just a little in the resulting silence, until he whispers, “They’re  _ both _ called  _ Claire _ .”

  
  


While you have been living with this confusion for a little over two years now, this is a brand new experience for him. You sympathize.

  
  


“Welcome to my nightmare.” 

  
  


“I suppose I can just refer to them as the bride and groom, that’s easy enough.” And just like that, he’s figured out a practical way to navigate the situation. And he’s back on his jokes, which is a good sign. “You, on the other hand, have to deal with it for the rest of your life.”

  
  


“Oh I have my coping mechanisms.” This is true. You’ve established a system. “The obvious one is Man Klare and Woman Claire.”

  
  


“I bet your sister loves that.”

  
  


“Not as much as she enjoys being Angry Claire. Fun Klare thinks that one is hysterical.”

  
  


“That’s so mean!”

  
  


“I’ll give you £100 if you slip one of those nicknames into the wedding speech.”

  
  


“Absolutely not.”

  
  


“Ok I’ll turn up to Sunday service _and_ put £200 in the collection plate, even for just one of the names. Final offer. Think of your church on this one!”

  
  


You can’t see him, but you can tell when he’s shaking his head fervently. “I plan on bringing my top-shelf officiating. Only the best for your family. You better be ready. It’ll be dazzling.”

  
  


“Well then I’ll make sure that everyone brings their sunnies. I’d hate for anyone to be blinded by your dazzle.” You let that compliment linger for a moment, completely unqualified. Then you have to bring him back to humility. “Even if you’re being a spoilsport.”

  
  


“I’m not being a spoilsport!” He launches into a tirade about professionalism which bleeds seamlessly into standard conversation.

  
  


So this is where you are now.

  
  


Strictly friends-only with a (admittedly quite attractive) priest, who will be officiating your sister’s upcoming wedding (with a history of shagging said priest at previous weddings he’s officiated for members of your family)

  
  
  


What could possibly go wrong?


	2. Dot and dash our days

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> (Fleabag *somewhat* addresses the elephant in the room in regards to her relationship with the Priest, and also gets an unexpected request for Claire's wedding.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies for the delay. (Been having a bit of a time.) But I'm back, and I hope you are staying safe, wherever you are. ❤️

“I’m probably going to Hell for saying this….” Sharon, the bank manager’s wife, tells you in passing on this particular chatty Wednesday and stops you dead in your tracks.  _ (Like where this is going...)  _ “But he’s quite handsome, that priest.” 

  
  


It’s very out of character for her to comment on the attractiveness of another café customer, which makes you suspect you’re rubbing off on her in the best/worst possible way after all.

  
  


But in her defense, that priest of yours  _ is  _ handsome and he _did_ go out of his way to be very friendly with her first while he was in. Borderline flirty, really. 

Even though he had just stopped by to pick up a few treats for some of the parishioners he was on his way to visit, he’d obviously made time to chat with both of you. That kind of attention, paired with the fact the man exudes charisma without even the faintest idea of its volume, is deadly. And still he always goes over the top with the smiling and the chatting and the friendliness. Makes even sensibly married women swoon. 

  
  


The man can be a complete menace.

  
  


For a moment, you contemplate giving her a load of sordid intimate details, confirming exactly how deep his attractiveness runs. You are intimately familiar with him in that regard.

  
  


Instead, you go with, “You should ask him to join your book club. I gather he would, and I’m sure the other ladies wouldn’t mind the eye candy.”

  
  


She scoffs, and describes a few of the likely scenarios that would play out if your ‘handsome’ priest were to join her horny-and-bored housewife book club. All of them are hilarious to imagine--him sitting tensely in the corner, squirming as all of the women futilely make advances, when all he wants is to discuss literature. 

  
  


_ Kind of makes you want to coerce him into joining along with you, for the front-row viewing. You could sell tickets and make a killing. _

  
  


Still. As she goes on about which of her friends would be the most aggressive flirt with a catholic priest, you have a moment to muse. Specifically since she brought it up first, commenting on your priest’s good looks.

  
  


You’d be fooling yourself if you didn’t acknowledge every once in a while that your feelings about him, and being around him during the planning of another wedding, are complicated.

  
  


While your relationship has changed, and you’ve matured and all that other actualized adult bullshit… he’s still him. And you’re still you. That sort of hard-and-fast, lusty attraction doesn’t ever just vanish completely.

  
  


So in every moment you spend with him, there is certainly a horny undertone that cannot be ignored entirely. But it is manageable. So much so that you can leave it in the corner, like an ornate decorative elephant that neither of you acknowledges openly. You can spot it, but you can absolutely live with it. It’s fine.

  
  


(Though you suspect that, after this, you may never again be able to be near wedding planning in any capacity without being totally aroused. Which is difficult, considering how close your café is to a bridal shop. Could become complicated.)

  
  


Sharon eventually has to leave to pick up her children. You close down the café at the end of the day, thinking that perhaps that ornate elephant in the room might actually be more appropriately described as a fox, given the people involved.

  
  


As long as neither of you bring it up though, whatever it is, it can sit in the corner. No problem.

  
  


\--

  
  


That evening, you have a completely unexpected conversation.

  
  


“We’ve set a date.” Claire states once the video call is connected. Does not even say  _ hello  _ or  _ how are you _ or anything remotely conversational. “For the wedding. End of July is the plan.”

  
  


“Cool.” is all you can respond with. You’re biting your tongue on about six different extremely vulgar jokes or wind-ups. Keeping responses short and to the point is your best move to avoid getting uninvited to the wedding.

  
  


“And….” You can see her jaw lock up, teeth gritting. You know this particular Claire face very well. She really does not want to say whatever she is building up to now. 

  
  


After a terse and unending silence, she finally spits it out. Slowly. “Would you…. Be…. my maid of honor?”

  
  


_ This  _ is what makes the conversation completely unexpected.

  
  


Perhaps the thought of her considering you even remotely  _ honorable  _ is completely unfathomable. But her first wedding had been more akin to an elopement. So really any dip into ceremonial tradition is surprising. Let alone requesting your actual involvement in a position of high status, which says a lot about how far you two have come.

  
  


Though in true Claire fashion, she’d just asked it through gritted teeth over Skype.

  
  


“If it were up to me, we wouldn’t even have a wedding party. But it’s a big deal to Klare to have his brother involved so….” She qualifies her request, as if to diminish the sentiment of it. Such a Claire thing to do. “It’s going to be a small ceremony, mostly people from the company, plus a few others. Not a big deal. Okay?”

  
  


The response to this request does not come easily. Just as she’d had a hard time asking, you have a hard time knowing the right way to answer. It’s not reluctance to take part. You are simply...overwhelmed by the gesture.  You’re quite touched, honestly. (And for once, not in a raunchy way.)

  
  


“Okay.” You simply nod, with a smile.

  
  


“Good.” Claire says matter-of-factly, bobbing her head. You can tell. She seems happy you’ve agreed to it, though she would _never_ confirm that in any way.

  
  


“Can’t promise I won’t try to sleep with the best man though.” You have to throw it in there, because this has all gotten far too sentimental.  Claire simply lets out a short grunt of displeasure. 

Though, you suspect, she would prefer you have sex with the best man and  _ not  _ the priest. 

  
  


\--

  
  


Though your friendship with the priest evolves past the point of needing an excuse to spend time together, the wedding planning is a convenient fallback in conversational lulls. 

  
  


Claire sends you the dress she expects you to wear to the wedding. Though there is no negotiation on this front, she shows you mercy and picks out something actually decent. You won’t outshine the bride, but you’ll at least have a fighting chance of catching someone’s eye. 

  
  


You show him the bridesmaid dress, expecting him to have loads of opinions. (The man is  _ obsessed  _ with fashion) Instead he just blushes a bit, and eventually acknowledges that, quote,  _ “you’ll look lovely in that.” _

  
  


The wardrobe obsession, you had already known from last time. Shopping for clerical vestments tends to hint at that interest pretty strongly. But this time around, you learn a lot more about him, though most of it is pretty surface level. 

  
  


After a bit you’ve figured out that his naturally inquisitive nature is more than just a professional characteristic. It’s like why the least photogenic person always offers to take the group photo—then they never have to be publicly vulnerable themselves.

  
  


Still, you have your ways. Not  _ those  _ ways, not anymore. But little conversational tricks that slowly pull out facts about your priest.  Over time, you’ve collected a montage of moments that flesh out his interests more. Like,

  
  


_ “No, really, I don’t mind doing the dishes. Something calming about it.”  _ He insists one evening, though you’ve repeatedly said he can leave the washing in the sink for you the next morning. 

  
  


Or,

  
  


_ “Jaffa cakes are totally underrated.”  _ He declares, a literal mouthful of his snack muffling his speech. (It is disgusting how frequently he will absentmindedly talk with his mouth full like this.)

  
  


And,

  
  


_ “You’ve been humming for the last five minutes and I cannot figure out what it is! _ ” You yell at him once. He just shrugs, no big deal.  _ “Probably not humming anything specific. Drives Pam crazy but it’s a habit. _ ”

  
  


You’ve also got some snapshots of his dislikes as well. Such as,

  
  


_ “There is absolutely nothing more terrifying than that....that THING. _ ” He shudders.  _ “We are talking about a children’s show.”  _ You remind him of his hyperbolic response.  _ “No. Mr. Blobby is not a character in a children’s program, it is certifiable hell-spawn.  _ I  _ would know.” _

  
  


Then there was the time,

  
  


_ “Can you please stop??”  _ He grabs your wrist.  _ “I have an itch!”  _ _ “The sound drives me mental though!” “What, scratching?” “Fingernails on fabric!” _

  
  


Little things that you file away, for future reference. That ultimately paint a bigger picture of who this man is, besides a man of the cloth.

  
  


There is one interest you uncover one day though that, frankly, shocks you wholly. 

  
  


“Musicals?” You say it like other people say  _ fuck.  _ Something profane and wrong. “You like  _ musicals?” _

  
  


“Not  _ all  _ of them, but yeah. Sometimes I like a little song and dance. And I am certainly not going to apologize to  _ you  _ for it. I’m sure your tastes are far more discerning.” He sneers that last bit, just to emphasize the mocking tone he’s going for.

  
  


You love it when he teases you back. It’s better than the rigid politeness you had started out with when reconnecting.

  
  


“I suppose you really like that one with the kitschy American and the fancy rainbow coat. That one’s your favorite, isn’t it?”

  
  


He only responds with that adorable smile-and-head-shake combination, telling that you have made a direct hit. 

  
  


When he finally makes eye contact again, you can tell he’s annoyed. Possibly insulted that you have uncovered such an embarrassing secret. Wait.  _ Is he actually angry? _

  
  


“No need to be cross, I’m not judging you.”

  
  


“Really?” He playfully nudges your shoulder, his voice getting squeaky. It’s obnoxiously twee. “With a tone like that.  _ Really??  _ Not judging me! _ ” _

  
  


“I promise! We all have our vices, don’t we?” 

  
  


“True.”

  
  


“But I will tell you that the only way you are ever getting me to watch one willingly is getting me absolutely piss-drunk first.”

  
  


He narrows his eyes at this and nods quite subtly, as if to accept your challenge.

  
  


(You wonder if he also has a little mental file hidden away of moments like this. For his own reference, in future.)

  
  


The more time you spend together, the easier it becomes to just casually hang out. And the easier it becomes to be comfortable in exclusively friendship.  Maybe he’s succeeding in turning you into an optimist after all. But you’re pretty sure eventually, all the foxes and elephants will just disappear and the two of you can co-exist happily and platonically.

  
  


At least, that’s what you’re telling yourself for now.


	3. living here between reasons to live

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> (Fleabag and Priest continue to spend time together, at the cafe and beyond)

He’s becoming a regular at the cafe, which you quite like honestly. 

  
  


Some days he mentions he’ll be there, and you make sure to set aside a plate just for him. Others he just shows up unexpectedly, usually with some of the pensioners from his church. Says a quick hello and carries on with his priest duties.

  
  


Business spikes for a bit after he gives Hillary’s a lovely review in his parish magazine.  He proudly brings you a printed copy _ (which you definitely don’t frame and hide amongst the guinea pig kit on the walls.) _

  
  


_ (If he notices that you have done this, he doesn’t call you out for it, but you do note that he does smile brilliantly when it catches his eye one day.) _

  
  


On this particular day, he mentioned that he’d stop by, so you’re expecting him.

After he’s gotten his tea, he looks at you, very business-like out of nowhere. “Listen, I was wondering if you’d be interested helping out with a thing this evening?”

  
  


You can’t help but smirk, and tease him just a little. “Aren’t we provocative today, Father.”

  
  


Once he’s realized the innuendo, he laughs at himself. Again, much better than the self-deprecation, or worse: the buried-in-guilt. “No. One of the upcoming pre-marriage counseling sessions is a cooking class, which I’m not leading, but I am expected to follow along.”

  
  


Immediately you understand his suddenly terrorized look at this prospect. 

  
  


In the time that you’ve known him, you have learned that while he loves talking about and consuming food, he is not so good at the preparation of it. The only time you had ever seen him attempt to cook, it was reheating leftovers that ended with actual flames. 

  
  


“So if you’re free tonight, I would appreciate a little guided practice to avoid making myself look like a complete arse in front of everyone.”

  
  


He wants cooking lessons. He wants to spend time with you, time that you can mock him relentlessly and still offer your professional assistance. There’d undoubtedly be wine. It’s an irresistible offer, especially since your hang outs had dropped off significantly during lent.

  
  


Except…

  
  


“Well, actually, I have a date. Tonight.”

  
  


He purses his lips. You can’t tell if he’s upset that you’re rejecting his offer, or just trying to figure out how to respond.

  
  


While you have been on a number of dates in the past few months (mostly Claire offering up some associates from her firm, trying to distract you from sexing the priest and derailing her wedding), this is the first time you have actually mentioned them to him.

  
  


It feels awkward.

  
  


“Is that weird? To talk about?”

  
  


“No!” He insists, maybe with just a touch more vigor than a truly nonchalant person would. “It’s good that you’re out there. Finding love.”

  
  


You can’t help but chuckle. “I don’t know about love, but I’m definitely out to find an always-elusive orgasm or two.”

  
  


He chuckles, mildly uncomfortable. You’re also not sure why you made that comment, you don’t fuck on the first date anymore.

  
  


“I’ll take a rain check though. On the kitchen practice. It’d be a shame to ruin your culinary credibility.”

  
  


“I don’t think I could survive the shame.”

  
  


“No one would read your newsletter reviews again.”   
  


“A veritable tragedy!”

  
  


And you’re back in the swing of things again. 

  
  


—

  
  


Your date turns out to be a total flop. He’s devastatingly dull, hardly good looking, and mentions a different ex approximately every six minutes. Probably a psychopath. Claire must be hitting the bottom of the barrel.

  
  


You’ve finished taking off your makeup (which in hindsight, you wish you’d have forgone and saved yourself the effort) when your phone chimes. Literally, he set a personalized ringtone of pipe organs for when he texts. What a nerd.

  
  


_ How was your date? Still searching? LOL. _

  
  


You hate that he will actually send texts that end with LOL, or perhaps you hate it because it’s so perfectly  _ him  _ and it’s adorable. Still, 

  
  


_ No luck. Didn’t even walk me home.  _

  
  


He takes a long time to respond to that one. Longer than expected. And longer than it should take to come up with what he inevitably responds with.

_ Sorry  _ 😔

  
  


Again, you’re struck with a lingering feeling of awkwardness that is difficult to fully understand. You don’t particularly like this feeling at all. Moving forward, you’re going to refrain from mentioning all romantic pursuits to him.

  
  


Anything that keeps this gnawing thing at bay.

  
  


\--

  
  


The following night, you take him up on his offer to help coach him through basic cooking skills, as long he promises to have wine.  _ Not the communion stuff either, the real thing,  _ you stipulate by text, to which he responds with four laughing emojis. 

  
  


You are unlikely to magically transform him overnight into a chef de cuisine, but you still want him to avoid being mocked by a room full of sappy engaged couples. And you are by no means a Gordon Ramsay level professional in the kitchen (well except for the relentless anger issues and judgmental nature), but even you can tell that he is a disaster. 

  
  


He gets flustered easily. Places things down and forgets where they’ve gotten to, which sends him into a tailspin every few seconds. It’s pretty comical, except you seem to be the only one in on the joke.

  
  


“I get why we always do takeaway now.” You say perched on the countertop, sipping a glass of wine and watching him scramble around.

  
  


“Oh fuck off.” His eyes never leave what he’s working on. His exclamation is, you figure, about 45% sarcasm. 

  
  


You shouldn’t laugh. (But you can’t help it, just a little) “Just relax a little. You’re stressing me out just watching you.”

  
  


He does not take your advice. At least he puts down the knife before he turns on his heels and stares at you frantically. “I just don’t…. how am I expected to do so many things all at once and not burn the entire place to the ground??” 

  
  


At this point, you offer him sincere advice. Something Boo had explained to you once, that made kitchen prep more bearable. “Look, it’s really just about timing. You have to look ahead, figure out what needs to be done, prep as much as you can before you turn up the heat, and then just do it confidently.”

  
  


He looks up at you with wide eyes, like you have just conveyed to him the deepest truth in the entire universe. There’s something churning in his thoughts that you are not privy to, and the way he’s looking at you now suddenly makes your straightforward cooking advice feel heavy. Metaphorical, and very unintentionally so.

  
  


Then out of nowhere there’s this moment, charged and electric. The two of you staring in each others eyes. Your position on the counter leaving you primed to be swept up and carried off to the bedroom. His gaze expectantly locked only on you. That sexually-charged elephant statue you’ve left in the corner of the room feels monumental and unavoidable. 

  
  


_ (Unrelated, but Sexually-Charged Elephant Statue could be a great band name, you imagine.) _

  
  


It’s not that you have never been alone with him in all this time. It’s just always been in public. Your cafe. Some restaurant. But there is something intimate about being alone in his kitchen. Or quite possibly, it’s just a combination of horniness and wine talking.

  
  


Fortunately, Pam walks in just then ( _ A sentence you are unlikely to ever repeat)  _ and it is unmistakable when she notices you’re there as well. Her face goes from unbridled enthusiasm to quiet disdain in mere seconds. 

  
  


“Hello Father!” She chirps excitedly looking at him, turns her gaze to you and says with much less excitement. “Hello...you.” She plasters on a pathetic attempt at a smile. You should be used to it by now.

  
  


“Hi Pam, sorry about the mess!” He apologizes profusely, which makes you think that Pam is not just a sound tyrant but a mess tyrant as well. “I’m just practicing before the pre-marriage cooking class next week. She’s helping.”

  
  


He gets a sincere smile and nod from her. Then she snaps her head to you, cocks an eyebrow at the miscreant sitting on the counter observing a priest in the rectory kitchen. Probably imagining what exactly you are doing to help in this position, and it’s very little in her eyes. You hop off the counter at that moment, afraid you’re about to be scolded.

  
  


“I see that.” She shakes her head a little, and turns to him. “If you need any help you know where to find me.”

  
  


That feels like a jab. Like he wouldn’t need help with the cooking, but protection from your furthered attempts at seduction. 

  
  


After Pam leaves ( _ to go knife the candles in the church again _ , whatever that actually means) and the instinctive schoolgirl panic of being judged by the teacher subsides, you turn back to him. “She hates me.”

  
  


He shakes his head, but neither of you seem convinced by his refusal. “She’s got a good heart. It’s just....”

  
  


Not even he can put a positive spin on the way Pam regards you.

  
  


You can’t help but wonder. It’s actually been a question gnawing at you for ages. “Does she...  _ know _ ?” 

  
  


Somehow the thought of Pam actually knowing the two of you have had sex before is horrifying.

  
  


“She may suspect…. But I’ve only outright told Father Matthew.”

  
  


“Didn’t come round after for pillow talk with her then?”

  
  


He laughs. “ _ No. _ ”

  
  


The conversation is veering off into forbidden territory again. Neither of you bring up the before times much, and for good reason. Lot of shame and unpleasantness in that neck of the woods. So you stay in the now times. Where things are breezy and casual, and only the rarest of occasionally, electric and amorous.

  
  


“Probably for the best.” You steer things back into a casual zone.

  
  


He just sighs. “Can you please just help me sort this mess out?”

  
  


You survey his workstation, which looks like a massive storm has just rolled through. Scraps and peelings strewn about, misshapen cut pieces all over the cutting board. It’s a disaster.

  
  


“I doubt even God could help sort this out now.” You tell him in earnest. “Perhaps you could just fake being a cautionary tale? What  _ not  _ to do?”

  
  


“Oh I doubt I’d have to fake  _ that,  _ thank you very much.” At this, he rolls his eyes and throws the towel. Metaphorically and literally. Knocks over your wine glass.

  
  


Fortunately for him, you’ve got loads of practice in dealing with messes.


	4. When the one-ways collude

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> (Fleabag and the Priest find a new activity, have a chat, and an unexpected guest shows up at the cafe)

Timing. You proclaim yourself to be an expert on this. Knowing the exact right moment to crack a joke that cuts through the tension of a situation. Sensing the best time to disappear if anything--a conversation, a topic, a relationship--is too heavy. Too emotional. Your pacing and timing is, under normal circumstances, unparalleled.

  
  


On this particular day, though, time is your enemy.

  
  


It’s early. Very early. Too early to be out in the world, let alone prepping for an exercise with your priest. (Not  _ that  _ kind of exercise.)

  
  


But you’d made a real fucking comedy of errors to end up here. The first was mentioning in casual conversation that you actually didn’t mind running as an exercise form. The second was agreeing to his enthusiastic invitation to start going on runs together, without first inquiring about his schedule.

  
  


By the time you’d already committed and he was noticeably excited to have someone to go for runs with, he’d made plans that involved being out the door before the sun had barely even risen.

  
  


“For the record, I hate this.” You growl as you lace up your trainers. When you look over at him, rage boiling in your stare, he’s just beaming. Face lit up with unbridled enthusiasm. 

  
  


“You said you liked jogging!”

  
  


“During normal human hours, yes. But being awake this early is a punishment. And your sunshiney, a-single-smile-could-cure-cancer attitude isn’t helping anything.”

  
  


He laughs. Probably at you.  _ Fucking wanker.  _

  
  


“Well, I’m up early for mass regularly so….” He shrugs at this, but still smiling and happy. 

  
  


“That’s miserable.” You say, even though you know for him, it’s not actually miserable. “C’mon. Let’s get this over with.”

  
  


Thankfully, since you’ve been pretty good about keeping up with your exercise regime, your lungs don’t immediately explode. Once the two of you have found a comfortable pace, it’s slightly more bearable to be up and moving this early.

  
  


Here and there you have a chat. It’s mostly him asking you questions, while also once again seamlessly dodging your own questions. 

In your periphery, it is unmistakable that he is primarily watching you, chatting away casually. 

  
  


You, on the other hand, do your best to keep your gaze on the path ahead. Arguably because you are being an attentive pedestrian and avoiding running into anything. But actually, you are simply avoiding staring at  _ him  _ for too long.

  
  


Why you expected him to show up in baggy and unflattering kit is unclear. But you could not have expected him to show up in his current extremely flattering, and almost skin-tight outfit. Standard wardrobe for any athletic man, showing off the musculature they had worked hard to sculpt, and the kind that would certain capture your attention. If it happened to be on anyone else. 

  
  


But on  _ him?  _ Wholly indecent.

  
  


“What‘s on your mind?” He pokes, noticing that you’ve been far too quiet for too long. “I mean besides murdering me for dragging you out so early?”

  
  
  


“Just….”  _ Don’t talk about his arms. Don’t look. Ah, fuck. You’re looking.  _

  
  
  


“What’s that?” He clearly isn’t going to let this go.

  
  


So you end up surprising yourself by saying this, instead. “You don’t like answering questions either.” He just looks over at you, confused about where this is coming from. So you elaborate. “You ask a million of them but always change the subject when I try to do the same.”

  
  


“I’m…. not great at talking about myself.” He admits, slightly winded suddenly. Or possibly uncomfortable with the topic.

  
  


“You’d much rather talk about made up stories then.”

  
  


“I like to listen.” He clarifies. “In my job, I’m not really supposed to go on about myself. And it makes people less willing to open up if all I do is overshare my own issues.”

  
  


“Priesthood wise, I get it.” He just nods along. “But we’re friends. Friends are supposed to talk, you know that bullshit you see on sitcoms.”

  
  


“True.” He lets that conversational trail run cold, which sort of proves your point. “So that’s really all you’re thinking about?”

  
  


The way he’s looking at you now? It’s a knowing, borderline flirty look. Yep. Definitely caught you admiring him.

  
  


“That, and also how I’m definitely going to murder you for dragging me out this early.”

  
  


“If that’s the case, better wait until after your sister’s wedding.” He jokes. “Be a shame for you to wind up in prison over me.”

  
  


\--

Later on, after you’ve finished your (admittedly, moderately enjoyable) exercise and cleaned up for the day, timing ends up being an enemy once again. But for completely different, and unfortunately unexpected way.

  
  


Almost immediately after you’ve opened the cafe, the first person through the door is the last person you would hope to see on any day.

  
  


Godmother.  _ (Ugh. _ )

  
  


“Hello darling!” She gives you a trademark fang-baring grin, and looks derisively around at your empty cafe. Of course she’d turn up now. “Must be so wonderful to have an assured place for peace, quiet and alone time!” 

  
  


This is her way of saying your cafe is failing. (Which it isn’t.)

  
  


“Rather unfortunate for such a cozy cafe to sit around empty and unpatroned.” She adds with her trademark pucker, to attempt at further digging under your skin.

  
  


Instinctively, your eyes dart over to the hours sign in the door. Cafe’s only been open for three minutes.

  
  


“I was just in the neighborhood, a very interesting friend of mine has an exhibit that they wanted my guidance on. So lovely to be appreciated” Bragging, while simultaneously chastising you for not admiring her work enough. Standard move. “And I thought I would pop over and say hello.”

  
  


On more than one occasion, you have seen her in the vicinity and (thankfully) she has never once stopped in. 

  
  


“I do hope you are handling Claire’s big news well. I’d hate it if you were uncomfortable with your sister and your father all married off, while you remain…” She trails off, leaving  _ unmarried  _ or  _ pathetically single  _ or even  _ perpetually miserable  _ unspoken but implied.

  
  


You do your best to put on a smile, even though you’re contemplating strangling her. Even fleetingly. “I assure you, no issues on my end.”

  
  


“That’s wonderful to hear.” Her spurious smile widens, with just the faintest hint of condescension. You’re experienced enough to read the loftiness in all of her expressions. “It’s very important to her, this wedding. And I would be absolutely heartbroken if you embarrassed us in front of Father. He’s become a dear friend to the family.”

  
  


_ Ah.  _ There it is. The true reason for this visit. She does not want to be humiliated in front of your priest.

  
  


You assure her that there is nothing to be worried about, that you’re fine. Even though she looks hardly convinced, she clearly does not want to spend any more time in your cafe than she already has. So she makes her excuses and departs, still wearing that snobby look on her way out.

  
  


The minute that Godmother leaves, you instinctively pull out your phone and dial his number without additional thought. 

  
  


You’ve both grown accustomed to commiserating over the horrors an unexpected Godmother encounter can wreak. Since her wedding, she shows up at his church frequently now with a multitude of sexualized commentary on religion. To him, it is mortifying, so he calls on you to decompress afterwards.

  
  


The call now though goes straight to messages, which surprises you. He’d made a point of mentioning how this particular day was his time off. 

  
  


_ He’s allowed to have a life,  _ you remind yourself. There’s a multitude of appointments, activities and whatever that he could be doing. No need to fret about it.

  
  


You shove the thought away. Because as far as you know, there’s nothing to investigate further or contemplate on this matter. Nothing out of the ordinary is really going on. 

  
  


_ (As far as you know.) _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all for the really lovely comments and kudos. It definitely helped me through a nasty case of writer’s block with this chapter. ❤️


	5. the someone you're hoping to recognize

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> (Fleabag goes on an unexpected date.)

You absolutely must be desperate for a proper shag because when Godmother offers to set you up with a “very interesting man”, you don’t immediately tell her to fuck off. 

  
  


Even though you see right through her obvious motives, still you take the phone number, do a bit of cyberstalking, and determine that he might not be horrible despite his connections.

  
  


Except that you end up being completely wrong, because while you turn up to the restaurant looking absolutely stunning, he never actually shows up at all. 

  
  


Not the end of the world, surely. Was he attractive in all of his Instagram pictures? Sure. Not a total loss though, in that regard. But more than anything you do feel  _ really  _ embarrassed. And also a little suspicious that Godmother rescinded her matchmaking and failed to mention it. Just to be a bitch.

  
  


Given how drop-dead gorgeous you’ve made yourself and how long you’ve been sitting across from an untouched water glass, you have absolutely attracted an audience to your humiliation. Nearby tables are all giving you pitiful glances, and you estimate at least a third of the hushed conversations are about you. 

  
  


Just as you are about to admit defeat and make your disgraceful exit, you look up and see a familiar figure walking through the restaurant. Even from a considerable distance, you could spot those arms anywhere. Your priest, here. His God sure likes to tease.

  
  


It is unclear whether you are mortified to be caught out like this, or grateful just to see him.

  
  


Once he’s a bit closer, and you are absolutely certain that it’s your priest, you just give him a pathetic little wave. His eyes widen and his face lights up when he spots you. Such a puppy dog of a man, there’s an actual skip in his step as he makes his way to where you sit.

  
  


“Hello you!” He says excitedly with that adorable little pitch raise that makes your heart race. “Fancy seeing you here.”

  
  


The way it is said just then sounds like you two running into each other was no accident. Even though it clearly was just a coincidence.

  
  


“You look lovely.” He adds, very bashfully. “Are you here with someone?”

  
  


“Well I was on a date…” He looks slightly crestfallen. Fortunately (for him) you can turn that quickly around. “But the bastard never showed, and now I’m stuck here looking rejected, with an audience.”

  
  


No sooner have you said that and he takes a seat immediately. The perpetual knight in clerical armor. “I’m so sorry my dear, thank you for waiting.” This he adds in a showy play acting way, loud enough to be totally unavoidable for the nearby patrons. Once he’s seated himself, he just smiles at you so warmly. Beaming.

  
  


_ (You can’t help but wish that he had been your date all along, not Godmother’s lemon.) _

  
  


Instead, you just look at him quizzically. “Wait. Didn’t you just come from that way though? In the restaurant? Like you were…”

  
  


“Oh I was just using the toilet before heading to the bar.”  _ Liar.  _ “I’d be happy to join you now though. I’d hate for anyone to think that you were rejected.”

  
  


You hate to admit it, but you are grateful. This seems like a better way of rescuing the evening than shame eating takeaway in your flat alone.

  
  


“This is the first and last time I get set up by my Godmother.” 

  
  


His jaw drops. “No. You did not.”

  
  


All you can do is wince and hope that your cheeks haven’t flushed too red with embarrassment. “He seemed relatively normal! I did my research.”

  
  


“Apparently not enough!” He laughs, and casually takes a drink from that untouched water glass. Never breaking eye contact, he adds, “Still, it’s his loss.”

  
  


Fortunately, the waiter interrupts before he can give you any further heart eyes from across the table. 

  
  


Your suspicions of his evening are seemingly disputed when he orders a main and offers to split a pudding later. Before ordering, you had assumed he would just ask for a salad or a starter, as he’d undoubtedly already eaten and ran into your pathetic situation on his way out.

  
  


After such a tumultuous start, the evening ends up being thoroughly rescued once he joins you. You do split the check, because even though he did crash it, this is  _ not a date. _

  
  


Afterwards, he mentions that it’s a lovely evening for a walk if you’d like to join him. His company is very comforting, and you suspect if you go home now you’ll shame spiral in a spectacular fashion at being stood up.

  
  


About a block after you’ve begun walking and enjoying each other’s company, you notice him very subtly clutching his stomach and grimacing. Those earlier suspicions you’d so carelessly thrown out resurface.

  
  


“Be honest. Did you just eat two whole meals consecutively in the same restaurant so I wouldn’t feel like a loser?”

  
  


His pause is incriminatingly long, and he cannot look you in the eyes for its duration. “I  _ might  _ have…”   
  


You are completely and wholly mortified. “I’m hardly an expert, but isn’t gluttony one of the deadly sins?” 

  
  


“ _ Not  _ if it is in service of a friend. Then it’s a selfless act of heroics and definitely not a sin.” He defends himself vehemently. “Also I'll have you know it's been a busy week and there were a few missed meals here and there, so I think it balances out in the end. Just a bit rough going right now.”

  
  


You hadn’t properly noticed it until he brought it up, but he had actually been fairly quiet throughout the week. “That’s true, I suppose. Been a while since I heard from you. God keeping your nose to the grindstone?”

  
  


He gives you a bit of a crooked smile that feels a bit wrong. Like there’s something going on that you are not privy to. “Something like that, yeah.”

  
  


There’s a sense of something in the way he’s tensed up and shifting around nervously that tells you to stop prying further. You know enough of him to know he’ll tell you if it matters, in his own time.  The fact that he’s still smiling and walking with you seems to suggest that it’s not another pending breakup that he is concealing.

  
  


“Well I can’t say I blame you, that food was incredible. I’d likely have done the same thing, roles reversed, just to get another plate of those scallops.”

  
  


He lets out a little satisfied moan, and clutches his stomach. “So true but  _ please  _ don’t talk about food right now. I’m fit to burst.”

  
  


Because he had shown you kindness earlier, you reciprocate by changing the subject. To something he’s usually more comfortable discussing. “Thought up a good title for the next review yet? You apparently had two whole dining experiences to come up with one.”

  
  


“Not yet. It has to happen organically. You can’t force these things.”

  
  


For a moment, he stops walking and looks you dead on. The words he’s said, he done so staring directly at you. Like he’s speaking about you and not tawdry food puns. 

  
  


In another world, this would be the part of the date where one or both of you would be bold and go in for a kiss. Even though you know it can’t happen, your nervous system braces itself. Foolishly hopeful that it still will, that a kiss is still possibly on the menu.

  
  


So instead, you tell yourself that it’s all imagined. Then he looks a bit green, rests his hands on his knees in a crouch, and you are sure that he was not speaking of you in any way whatsoever.

  
  


“You ok?” Asking with a laugh takes the edge off this strange mood you now find yourself in. 

  
  


“Yeah.” He groans, rests in this half-fetal position for a few moments, then somehow finds his second wind. Looks you in the eye once more, and adds with a trademark smirk. “Like I said, it was worth it.”

  
  


\--

  
  


Since the night of your not-a-date glutton session, you realize you’ve been seeing a lot less of your priest.

  
  


You still get routine texts and the odd phone call. Then when you can manage to crawl out of bed at the ungodly early hours, you both go on your chatty jogs. But the other offers to hang out in person are few and far between. He’s in the café less too, which is probably what makes you the most neurotic. 

  
  


If he’s gradually pulling back because he has second thoughts about your friendship, that might actually be worse than the way things ended last time. Then, it was hard and fast and over before you knew it. Now he's woven himself much deeper into the tapestry of your life, extracting him out again would be much trickier.

  
  


And if you’re simply overanalyzing things like a possessive girlfriend, when there is absolutely nothing to be worried about... Well, _t_ _ hat  _ might actually be the fucking worst case scenario of them all.

  
  


The next time he actually shows up to the cafe, you make a point of bringing it up.

  
  


“Is everything alright? You’re being a lot less Father Son, and more Holy Ghost than usual.” You do not attempt to sugarcoat it in any way. ( _Well, except for the churchy jab, which you hope he finds funny_ ). 

  
  


Your bluntness clearly throws him askew. He gets flustered immediately, nearly dropping his tea.

  
  


“Sorry. Yes. I’ve just been… really busy.” 

  
  


“So I hear. Is something going on? Just church stuff, or….”

  
  


“Something like that, yes.” 

  
  


You’re frustrated with him now. More than once you have expressed your annoyance with his guarded responses and here he continues to do the same. Especially infuriating considering how often he needles you for more divulging. 

  
  


“Sorry, it’s nothing bad. Just...complicated.” He sees how annoyed you are with his ambiguity, and he’s trying to assure you in his own way. Even if it is still irritatingly vague. “And also incredibly boring for anyone with a life.”

  
  


You chuckle mirthlessly. “Well we’ve firmly established that I don’t have one of those. Go on, try me.”

He laughs a little while shaking his head, a cue that you've learned is a go-to topic changer. The resulting silence once again informs you that your questions will be left unanswered. At least for now. Instead, he extends an offer to see a film the following evening, which apparently was why he'd stopped by this particular day. "It's not a musical." He promises with a wink.

  
  


Again, you doubt yourself. Perhaps you had been a bit mental to even question what was happening. He’s here now. And that has to count for something. 

For now, you’re going to cool it on the neuroses and just trust him.

  
  


  
  



	6. All you won't show

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> (Godmother throws an anniversary party. Someone ends up drunk and, well, things occur...)

Not to be completely outdone and overshadowed by Claire’s wedding announcement, Godmother decides that they’ll celebrate their anniversary this year by throwing a party. Lots of interesting friends. A spectacle  _ (to make Claire’s quickly-approaching nuptials seem undersized and pathetic in comparison _ ).

  
  


The priest, you find out from her very buzzy voicemail, will definitely be in attendance. Fortunately, because you intentionally dodged her call, you do not have to pretend not to have heard his attendance plans directly from him already.  Because as far as you can tell, she remains blissfully unaware of your friendship with the priest. A circumstance you intend on clinging to for as long as possible. She’s taken so many parts of your life, but this is one you refuse to give up.

  
  


She forces you to make canapes for the party, though she does hire help to pass them around, which she tells you smugly expecting endless praise for her kindness. This, however, means you’re forced to turn up at the party far too early. 

  
  


The bright side is that you’re there right when the Claires turn up. Klare looks bouncy and eager, a real party animal, while your sister looks unabashedly grumpy. Probably because they’ve had to fit in another trip to London just to make it to this party that (like you) she had not wanted to attend in the first place.

  
  


Winding her up helps pass the time a bit, and makes the gradual deluge of not-him partygoers easier to manage. Because you hate to admit it, but you’re eager for your priest to finally turn up. Like ‘staring at the door, eyes darting round the crowd’ impatient.

  
  


Initially he’d said about texting before heading over, so the two of you could conspire in private. You could warn him of any “ _ very interesting friends”  _ that would certainly interrogate him on his views of sexuality or politics once they spotted his dog collar. He in turn would ease your Godmother-related rage by making pointed comments that would likely go unnoticed. Seeing as how Godmother literally worshipped him, he could get away with a whole magnitude of sins.

  
  


But as guests start funneling in, your phone remains eerily silent. You cannot help but worry that something has happened. This radio silence, combined with his recent stretch of undefined busyness, has you more on edge than you prefer to be. 

  
  


Fortunately, logic tells you that he’s just been delayed in a normal way. Transport. A last-minute parishioner emergency. It happens. Nothing unusual.

  
  


_ (You do down a glass of champagne in one go to try to quiet that obnoxious voice in the back of your head though. Okay, maybe two. Couldn’t hurt.) _

  
  


Eventually he turns up, slipping in unannounced at some point. You know this because you suddenly hear Godmother loudly introduce him as “her priest” to a discordant crowd of acquaintances. That voice of hers cuts through all the music and party chatter like a dagger, leaving bloody misery in its wake.

  
  


When you lock eyes with him from across the way, immediately you can see that something is wrong. He’s got on that fake barely-there squirm of a smile that is usually reserved for nosy parishioners or insufferable conversationalists. When he is really happy, he beams. Now he looks more like a torch that is two seconds away from running out of battery.

  
  


When he finally manages to break away from the group, glass of whiskey in hand, his expression relaxes ever so slightly. But still, there is an air of unease about him. You approach him casually--it’s a party, mingling is expected after all. No one would be suspicious of your conversation.

  
  


“Hello Father.” You remain casual and level, just to be safe. You are protecting this secret friendship at all costs, and Godmother is notorious for showing up at just the worst fucking moment possible.

  
  


“Oh shit, I was supposed to text first.” He groans as he spots you, clumsily pinching the bridge of his nose with the hand that does not hold his drink. “Sorry. I’m…”

  
  


_ (He’s already drunk.) _

  
  


“Forget it.” You brush it off. It really was not a big deal. “So how bad has the exhibitionism been? You’re the first proper Catholic she’s got to show off to her band of intellectual heathens.”

  
  


The laugh that escapes him seems involuntary, like he is in a really dark spot but you’ve managed to elicit just the tiniest bit of light from him.

  
  


“It’s uh…” He starts to say, then gets distracted within himself. “Sorry, I uh… need a moment. Air or something.” He starts to walk away, which stings ever so slightly. Being left behind. 

  
  


But then he turns back, cocks his head ever so subtly, to indicate that you should join him in his escape. You make cursory glance, to ensure that the coast is clear ( _ Godmother must be in the house currently, thank fuck)  _ and you follow his lead.

  
  


This is how you end up out in the back with him. The same spot where exactly two years ago you were snogging in secret while he practiced your father’s wedding homily. _(Shut up.)_ It’s the first time you have been back here with him, and whether it’s the party mood lighting Godmother’s had installed out here or the quiet solitude of evening, it feels more intimate this time.

  
  


“You okay?”

  
  


He’s close enough to you now that you can smell the thick scent of alcohol on his breath. There’s also a heavy sadness in his entire existence, which is either attributed to or explains away the alcohol.

  
  


“Not really.” He sounds physically exhausted and emotionally downtrodden. Also absolutely pissed, though that one you’d already figured. “Been a day.”

  
  


A long pause ensues, soundtracked by the buzzing of the party just behind you all. 

  
  


“We can talk about it if you….”

  
  


He just shakes his head, and looks at you with soft begging eyes. Silently pleading with you for something, though you’re not sure what exactly. 

  
  


“I can leave you be if you’d rather be alone…” This sparks an even more violent negation. He shakes his head like a pettish child refusing to accept a command. Even ever so briefly placing his drink-bearing hand on your shoulder to refuse your offer to be left alone.

  
  


“Please… stay.” He pleads. 

  
  


So you stay.

  
  


The silence seems to drag on for ages. You grant him your sympathetic presence, and you do not pry into what is on his mind or anything else. After a while, it seems that being away from it all with you is helping him to quell whatever his day hath wrought.

  
  


“Thank you.” He whispers reverently. You’d be lying to say the tremulous tone doesn’t make you a little weak in the knees.

  
  


For a moment, it looks like he’s about to stumble back towards the party. But he trips, and steadies himself by instinctively slapping his palm up against the wall, and it’s close enough to you that his elbow now rests awkwardly on your shoulder. The empty glass slips from his hand and miraculously falls to the ground without shattering. His lips curl up in a drunken smirk that appears equal parts playful and apologetic for how close he’s found himself to you now.

  
  


Instead of correcting his position and withdrawing, his arm stays fixed, but the rest of him pivots. So you’re now impossibly close, chest to chest, and facing one another dead on. 

  
  


Instantly, you know. You see exactly what is on his mind in this moment, and it is  _ sinful _ .

  
  


His lips are pursed, and steadily drawn in, like your gravity is pulling him in against his will. That same damn playful smirk creeping its way up again. Like he knows exactly what he’s doing. Like he can tell that, even though it’s not the best idea, you still  _ really  _ want him to.

  
  


“You sure….a good idea?” He is in no frame of mind to make any clear decisions. And you’re so caught out that you cannot even string together a complete sentence. Which tells you a mistake is unavoidable.

  
  


He looks at you that clearly and wordlessly says  _ are you serious?  _

  
  


“Tell me to stop and I will, promise.”

  
  


On instinct and against your better judgement, your pulse quickens, desire building deep inside. Part of you anticipates this…. this second coming. 

  
  


Then his hand is on your jaw, fingers tangled up in your hair. Gaze searing into you, filled with unrestrained passion. 

  
  


Maybe it’s the champagne talking. But you want it desperately. His lips on yours, hungry and unyielding. The thought of those fingers moving down to your neck, your chest, further and further down until they’re deep inside you. Your willpower is decimated. You are not going to last much longer. He’d better hurry up and fucking kiss you already.

  
  


Then.

  
  


“Oh! Sorry!” One of Godmother’s fascinating friends ( _ can’t remember which one, not that it fucking matters)  _ comes round the corner unexpectedly, lets out a shrieky apology, and immediately turns around to go back into the party area. 

  
  


Both of you freeze, though his grip on the nape of your neck noticeably loosens. The interjection has snapped you both immediately back to reality, where good sense can return again. Neither of you dares to move. It’s nothing but ragged breaths and unspoken desires now.

  
  


(It terrifies you a little to think about what is coming next.)

  
  


Sure enough. When he pulls back, you see it clear as day in his face. An excruciatingly familiar expression. It was the exact same way he had looked at you that night the two of you almost fucked in the confessional. Sharp condemnation, directed specifically at you. As if to suggest that once again,  _ you  _ were sent to ruin his celibacy. As if he was the innocent party, and you were the evil temptress.

  
  


He says nothing. Just backs away a little more, shaking his head. Defensive, and he knows it.

  
  


“Fuck you then.” You manage to whisper, and it is apparent that this is not your typically playful banter. That this venomous barb was sincere, and just for him.

  
  


You leave him in his spot that, up until now had always belonged to both of you, and don’t look back. He’s made it abundantly clear where he is at, and nothing good is going to come from discussing it further now. 

  
  


In your hasty escape you nearly bowl over your own dad. In true Dad fashion, he just blushes a bit and stammers until he can string together a few thoughts.

  
  


“Everything...uh, alright?”

  
  


“Yep, sorry.” It’s likely not, but he really doesn’t need to know that. “Just been a long day.”

  
  


“Ah, yes.” He’d seen you arrive with the canapes long before the party had even started. Chatted with you briefly on a few occasions “Heading out?”

  
  


You’re pretty sure you mumble something of a well wish and a goodbye, but from this point on your head is fuzzy and your memory is gone. All you can think about is getting the hell away from this party.

  
  


Once you manage back to your flat, you finally look at the phone that’s been vibrating in your bag off and on since you fled the party. You switch it off, leaving both missed calls (one from him, one from Claire surprisingly) unaddressed.

  
  


The irony of the situation is not lost on you now. Here you are on the anniversary of the last time things had ended with him, now on the brink of losing him once more, if you haven’t already.

  
  
Somehow, unsurprisingly, this time is way fucking worse.


	7. so long past past-due

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> (The Priest has some amends to make.)

You don’t hear from him again for nearly a week after that.

  
  


Nor do you attempt to reach out to him first either. He was the one who fucked up,  _ he  _ should be the one to apologize first. You dig your heels in on that, firmly and unwaveringly.

  
  


The attempted kiss is not your issue here. You’d be throwing stones in a very fragile glass house if you were to cast judgement for drunken passes.

  
  


No, the problem is that when the nearly-a-kiss abruptly turned into a missed opportunity, he glared at you like this was  _ your  _ fault. That once again you had seduced away from the path of righteousness, when you had generally been respectful of his boundaries.  _ (Well, at least outwardly) _

  
  


_ That  _ look of disdain means that he can fucking apologize first.

  
  


Still, you hate the resulting silence. A few times, you stare at your phone simultaneously willing it to ring and talking yourself out of calling him yourself. 

  
  


On a couple of bleak occasions, you can’t help but question if this thing, whatever it is, has run its course. While your life would be admittedly duller and much less pleasurable without him, how long could it realistically go on if it was fragile enough to be destroyed by one near kiss?

  
  


This reality, you do your best to ignore. The thought of being without his friendship again aches in ways you never thought possible.

  
  


You decide that if he apologizes, and accepts that he cannot just pin that scarlet A on your chest anytime things get a little horny, there’s a chance you’ll be able to go back to the business of being friends.

  
  


He finally turns up at the cafe unannounced on Wednesday. Sneaks in sometime when you’re not paying attention to the door, quietly seats himself at an empty table, and waits there solemnly for an indeterminate amount of time.

  
  


Eventually, you acknowledge him.

  
  


“It’s Chatty Wednesday.” You tell him flatly, no hint of friendliness in your voice. He looks at you with wide, repentant eyes. “You have to buy something and have a chat with someone you don’t know.”

  
  


“I know.” He stoically accepts your obvious anger. You had made absolutely no attempt to try and disguise it. “In that case, I’d like a tea, and also to talk to you if I could.”

  
  


“Earl grey or mint?” You may be cross with him, but you still recall his usual tea preferences.

  
  


He goes with the mint this time. 

  
  


At this point you notice that there is a little bundle of flowers laying on top of his table that had not been before. They happen to be your favorite color, which you know he knows.  _ (He’s trying.)  _

  
  


Still, you don’t acknowledge their existence at all. You remain cold and professional. Your best impersonation of your sister. Even Claire would be mildly impressed.

  
  


Instead of giving him your ear, you let him get sucked into several unexciting conversations with other customers. He does his best to look engaged, but you can see his eyes dart around regularly. Looking for  _ you,  _ hoping that you are going to put him out of his misery.

  
  


Torturing him like this is not very mature of you, but you really are quite upset with him. So you cannot help yourself from letting it go on a bit longer than you should.

  
  


As everyone else starts to file out eventually, going on about the rest of their day, you give up. He’s been here nearly two hours, staring at you like a mopey puppy and you are finally starting to feel bad. You take a seat next across from him.

  
  


“Hello.” You greet him, still cool and level. 

  
  


“I am… so fucking  _ sorry _ .” Either the time in the cafe or the week’s worth of distance has left him unable to hold off on apologizing any longer. “I crossed a line, and from what I can actually remember of that night, I think I tried to shift the blame on you. It wasn’t fair.”

  
  


“No, it wasn’t.” On this you both agree—his reaction was uncalled for. “Honestly, if you just see me as some kind of predatory jezebel who goes around stealing priests’ celibacy then…” You can’t bring yourself to conclude that thought.

  
  


“You’re not. I don’t…. That’s not how I see you at all. That night… ” He is insistent on the topic, but also having a visibly hard time stringing the words together confidently. “I can’t justify what happened, and I really don’t want to make excuses for my arsehole behavior. But it really was an awful fucking day that I tried to fix by burying it in whiskey. Then I fucked it up with you and I didn’t know how to take it back or make it better. I just… miss you.”

  
  


You can feel your anger softening round the edges ever so slightly, knowing that he genuinely is this repentant. But you still don’t understand. “What happened? That awful fucking day of yours?”

  
  


He just stares back at you, unable (or possibly unwilling) to answer such a deep and difficult question. 

  
  


This time you’re unwilling to accept the silences you can normally tolerate. “I know you hate answering questions just about as much as I do. But I deserve an actual explanation this time. Otherwise I’m not sure what exactly it is we’re doing, you and me.”

  
  


He nods. Understanding, finally. “I know. I want to. It’s just… It is a long, terrible story.”

  
  


Without another word, you walk across the cafe to flip over the closed sign and lock the door. You sit back down, and give him a look that is both patient and expectant.

  
  


And eventually, he tells you everything.  _ Everything.  _ Starting with his childhood, and the story he had started once forever ago in your flat. And about his extremely fucked up family. Then the debaucherous adult years that ultimately led him to the priesthood. 

  
  


What had once been a sketchy outline of his past now exists in full detail, even if it’s littered with iniquity. It paints everything you’ve got in your file about him in a brand new light, and you appreciate the illumination.

  
  


Then he skips ahead a bit to the night of the party, filling in some crucial details that you’d missed. Why he’d failed to text in the first place. More importantly, how profound an effect an unexpected contact from his estranged brother earlier on the day of the party had, leading him to drink until thoroughly pissed. And the rest? Well that you already knew, but he attempts to clarify it anyways.

  
  


Most of all, he explains that his harsh reaction to being nearly caught out was a really complicated blend of self-loathing for the destructive coping mechanisms he’d engaged in, and an unhealthy smattering of Catholic guilt. “ _ I shouldn’t have done that to you though. _ ” He says very pointedly at one point, and you can tell that he is sincere.

  
  


The delay in coming to you with an apology and explanation was his time to, quote, “deal with some of my own bullshit” and also to have a chance to meet with his counselor. ( _ Currently doing therapy  _ is another new fact you learn that you file away about him.)

  
  


You’re both there well past when it’s dark out. There are a few long stretches where he’s properly crying ( _ and maybe also you are. Shut up.)  _ which makes coherent and concise storytelling more difficult. So you offer him a friendly hand-on-shoulder gesture and wait in comfortable stillness for the next part.

  
  


A few times, when appropriate, you throw in a quick joke to add some much needed levity. It is your greatest talent after all.

  
  


It’s unclear exactly at what point you decided to forgive him for his transgression. But by the time that he gets up to leave, he is back in your good graces once more.

  
  


“I better head back, Pam may think I’ve skipped town.” He wipes a few errant tears on the sleeve of his jumper, as he stands up to leave. “Sorry to have kept you so late.”

  
  


“Forget it.” You know that you would wait in any scenario for this man.

  
  
  


“And listen. I don’t expect…” He’s suddenly a bit flustered. Not certain about what he’s trying to say. Or possibly reluctant to spit it out. “I would understand if this...” He makes a gesture implying that the ‘ _ this’  _ he speaks of is you and him. Your friendship. “If this has… if it’s either too much, or not enough. I would understand, is what I’m saying.”

  
  


Ah. He thinks he has scared you off.

  
  


You take your time responding. 

  
  


“Appreciate the gesture, but I would really rather not have to find a new priest to befriend.” He smiles with relief, and genuinely, for the first time since he showed up. “I doubt I’d even find one who would even  _ try  _ to snog after a few too many.”

  
  


He laughs at this. Only this time it’s not out of discomfort, or an ill at-ease reaction. It's that magical, trilling, throw-your-head-back laugh that sparks a joy in you that you haven't felt in a while. Probably since Mum died. And you can name the feeling it elicits this time.

It's the unfamiliar feeling that things might actually work out for you.

  
  


\--

  
  


Even though you consider the matter resolved, for a bit after he goes on a sort of repentance tour with you.

  
  


Desperate to make amends for his misconduct, he starts turning up again, much more than before. Pitches in with the washing at the café a few times. Texts more asking if he can pop by with takeout, and will not take payment for your meals.

  
  


When you ask him questions now, there is not a hint of hesitancy, unless when his professional status demands confidentiality. Though he is discussing church matters less, you notice.

  
  


It’s sort of sweet at first, so you let him run through the motions.

  
  


But the day you meet up at the shops to do errands together, and he insists on carrying your bags for you, this is weirdly over the line somehow for you.

“What kind of feminist would I be if I just let you handle my own heavy lifting?”

  
  


At this point he should just let it go. But the man is persistent. Even though he’s got his own arm full of things to carry, and now he wants to take yours on as well? He chuckles warmly, still expectantly reaching out his hand. “C’mon, it’s the least I could do after…” 

  
  


At this, he trails off, as he usually does when referencing  _ that  _ night. Because by now, the incidents of Godmother’s awful party have become a part of the past that gets vaguely referenced on occasion, but never specifically named. It’s now like a necklace that the elephant statue wears while sitting awkwardly in the corner of your lives. Part of what gets hinted at only when it is unavoidable.

  
  


Again, for absolutely no reason,  _ this  _ causes you to snap.

  
  


“For fuck’s sake, enough with the contrition already!”

  
  


He looks flummoxed by your outburst. Stops walking even. “I’m sorry. I just...”

  
  


Now you feel like a jerk. You are not properly used to people doing nice things for you just to be nice. “Well, I absolve you. Completely. So can I just... carry my own groceries in fucking peace?”

  
  


He nods. Understanding. Then makes a big show of withdrawing his offer of carrying your load, and continues on walking.

  
  


“I’m still gonna do nice things for you from time to time.” He throws in there stubbornly. As if he needs to defend his kind nature. “But from now on, you can do your own fucking dishes.”

  
  


You smile as a gesture of agreement. Excited at the prospect of things just going back to normal finally.

  
  


(Even though you are honestly not sure what "normal" even is anymore. And at the same time, if you have grown so inextricably close to ever reach normalcy ever again.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies for falling behind on replying to comments. (Work life stress is seeping into not-work life). But please know how deeply I appreciate all your lovely words. ❤️

**Author's Note:**

> Still just a rusty American fanfiction writer, so apologies for any Americanisms that accidentally sneak in.
> 
> Story and chapter titles from "A New Name For Everything" by the Weakerthans.
> 
> Thank you for reading! Kudos/comments are always deeply appreciated. ❤️


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